


Pulled Taut

by Corpium



Series: Pulled Taut [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 3x09, Action/Adventure, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubcon Makeout for plot purposes, Followup, M/M, the girl who knew too much, the schemers are scheming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 21:03:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/904905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corpium/pseuds/Corpium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Right now we're just pawns in a game, and we don't know the rules. If anyone can play a game like that, it's Peter."</p><p>"This isn't a game, Stiles."</p><p>Something flickers across Stiles's face, something cold and dark, something Derek can't bring himself to decipher. "My father might be dead already," Stiles says flatly. "Trust me, I know."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pulled Taut

**Author's Note:**

> *June 14, 2015: same plot now revamped. Yay, hindsight.*
> 
> If you're reading this after seeing all of 3A, then know I wrote this right after 3x09; at the time we didn't know for sure that the parents were going to be sacrificed, and we didn't know the magic behind it. For that reason, expect some changes from the show. 
> 
> Like I said in the tags, there is dubcon kissing. See specifics in the endnotes.

 

His demonic English teacher might be drawing a wire through his dad’s throat this very moment, and yet here Stiles stands, cobbling together a half-assed plan hinging on magical ley lines and hope. It doesn’t matter how many guns the Argents have or how many werewolves try to sneak up on her. The Darach vanished into thin air. So the plan they’re fabricating? It won’t be enough. He has to come up with something else.

They regroup at the Argents’ apartment, and when Scott and Lydia leave to meet with Deaton, Stiles pulls Derek aside. "Where's Peter?" 

Derek’s brows spell out warning. Stiles would find it funny if circumstances were different. ”At the hospital with Cora,” Derek says. “Why?"

Stiles walks over to Chris's table and pulls out his phone. "Because this plan isn't going to work." He takes pictures of the maps and diagrams, now hastily drawn onto paper with an actual marker rather than the goddamn invisible ink on Chris’s desktop. 

"If it's not going to work, why did we bother making it?" Derek asks, frustrated. 

Stiles shifts the charts over, leaving the table bare. "Because it's the best we can do.” _So far_. He snaps a picture of the five-fold knot and shoves his phone into his pocket. Pushing past Derek, he heads for the front door.  

Derek’s hand grabs his elbow, stopping him in his tracks, and Stiles freezes, staring ahead and grinding his teeth together in frustration. "You know you can't trust him, right?" Derek asks. 

"I know," Stiles murmurs. Then he looks at Derek, his gaze hard and determined. "But right now we're just pawns in a game, and we don't know the rules. If anyone can play a game like that, it's Peter." 

"This isn't a game, Stiles." 

Something flickers across Stiles's face, something cold and dark, something Derek can't bring himself to decipher. "My father might be dead already," Stiles says flatly. "Trust me, I know." He tugs away from Derek's grip. "I'll see you in two hours. Call me if you find out anything new." 

Stiles stalks towoards the door without looking back, brushing past Allison and her dad as they walk into the room, carrying between them a veritable arsenal of weapons. Allison holds out a knife with a shoulder harness. "Because I don't trust you with a crossbow," she says with a pale smile, and were it any other time, Stiles might smile back guiltily and offer her a lopsided shrug.

Now, though, he takes it and says, "I'll see you in two hours. Call me if you find out anything new." 

"Wait, where-" 

The door shuts behind him before she can finish.

 

o—o—o

 

 

He finds Peter sitting at Cora's bedside, watching her sleep with an unreadable expression on his face. He doesn’t look up when Stiles comes in. 

Stiles sits next to him. "She's safe from them until the next full moon," he says. Or so they promised.

Peter looks over at him, eyes narrowed. "Why are you here, Stiles?" 

For once, Peter reminds Stiles of the crazed alpha who slammed Stiles’s head into the trunk of his dead nurse’s car. Good. Stiles meets his eyes, gaze unflinching. "My father's been taken." 

"By Derek's latest failed conquest. Yes, I heard." Peter looks down at his fingernails. "What do you expect me to do about it?" 

"I could use your brain. We have a plan, but I can't rely on it to work. I need help. Your help, I think.” 

Peter crosses his arms, unimpressed by Stiles's determination. "And what makes me so special?"  

Stiles huffs in annoyance. "You've always got something up your sleeve, Peter. You've got everything figured out, and you're always five steps ahead, aren't you?" Stiles exhales in frustration, nostrils flaring. "I might be the 'clever one', but I can't put my father in any more danger. I need someone who knows what they're doing. Who won’t hold back.” 

Peter smirks. "You're too kind, but I'm sorry, Stiles; flattery will get you nowhere." 

Stiles looks at Cora. Dried blood trails out from under her bandage, standing out starkly against the pale skin of her forehead. He wonders how long Peter’s been at her side. ”Then do it because I'll help you take down the Alpha pack." 

Peter looks back at Cora. ”You'll do that anyway. Give me a better reason." 

Stiles's jaw tightens as he struggles to control himself. His fingers dig into the arms of the chair as he slowly turns his head over to meet Peter's calculating blue eyes. He inhales and exhales carefully, then says, "You killed for your family, Peter, but you couldn't save them." That gets Peter’s attention, and Stiles maintains eye contact, unblinking. "Help me save mine." 

Silence. Then Peter cocks his head to the side slightly. "What would you do if your father died tonight?" He asks, and he sounds genuinely curious, eyes boring into Stiles’s like Stiles's answer is important somehow.

Shifting in his seat, Stiles looks away. "I don't have time for this."   

"Yes, you do," Peter says softly, and Stiles can feel the werewolf's eyes on him, heavy. 

"I would—" He'd murder Jennifer Blake. He'd set a mirror in front of her so she could watch as she died, and then he'd wrap a wire around her throat and take an hour to pull it tight. He'd find out who she loved, and he'd- 

He swallows. "I don't know what I'd do," he says. 

Peter hums, a warm, pleasant sound. Then, he says, voice warm and liquid, obscene, ”Alright, I'll bite. In return for a favor."  

Stiles eyes Peter warily. "What sort of favor?" 

“Whatever I want," murmurs Peter, leaning into Stiles's personal space. "Whenever I decide I want it." His breath ghosts against Stiles's ear, making Stiles repress the urge to twitch. 

Stiles pulls back. Peter watches him intently, waiting, one side of his lips curling up almost imperceptibly. Stiles feels fragile, like splintered glass. 

"Your father's life for a favor, Stiles. Yes or no?" 

"What do you think?" Stiles snaps, voice hoarse and quiet. He regrets it as soon as Peter tilts his head, his unblinking eyes staying on Stiles, looking almost reproachful. Stiles nods a little and looks down. "Yes." 

 

o—o—o

 

When Stiles finishes explaining the plan they all came up with, Peter's still staring at the picture of the five-fold knot on his phone. "What is it?" Stiles asks. 

Peter looks up, blinking. "There's a chance your plan could work. It's not bad," he says, sounding almost proud. "But you're playing by her rules, and that's risky." 

"I know that," Stiles sneers. "So what are we supposed to do?" 

"We start," Peter dictates in his lecture voice, and Stiles kind of wants to strangle him, “by playing a completely different game. One in which we decide the rules. And the first question you have to ask yourself in order to decide the game is this: what is it that Jennifer Blake wants?" 

"To take down the Alpha pack. At least, that's how she excused the sacrifices."

Peter hums and looks back down at the picture of the five-fold knot, his forehead creased. "I can work with that," he murmurs. 

_Thank God_ , Stiles thinks.

 

 

o—o—o

 

 

Stiles parks his Jeep down the block from the warehouse. He checks his phone. It's on silent, and he has four new texts. Scott, Derek, Isaac, and the Argents are all in place. The only person they're waiting for is Stiles. Allison's second text is a surprise, though. 

"Allison says the Darach's tied my father to a chair, but all she's doing is pacing." He looks over at Peter, brow furrowing. "Why isn't she doing anything? What's she waiting for?" 

Peter shrugs. "The ritual might need to take place at a certain time tonight. The first strike of midnight or some such. That’s a good sign.” 

Stiles purses his lips, ignoring the feeling of _wrong_ welling up in his gut. He steps out of the car, and shuts the door quietly. Then, before he can even move away, he finds himself being slammed up against the side of his car. 

"What the h-mph—" he yelps, but Peter slaps his hand over Stiles’s mouth cuts him off."Pmmph mmmrr!" Stiles grinds Peter's toes into the ground with his heel, but Peter moves his feet away, pressing forward and far, _far_ too close. He doesn’t budge when Stiles tries to push him away. 

"One more thing before this plays out, Stiles," Peter says, gaze intent. Stiles's hand twitches for the knife the Argents gave him, but too late, because Peter’s already pinning his wrists above his head with a hand and using his weight to trap Stiles further. Peter pulls his head back just enough to leer down at Stiles. Peter tsks. "We'll still save your father," he says, and Stiles stops fighting, waiting. "All in good time. But first," Peter drawls. "About that favor..." His lips curl upwards.

Stiles stiffens. Peter starts to pull his hand away from Stiles's mouth –"What the fuck—" before putting it back with a disappointed frown.

Stiles opens his mouth, and Peter presses down harder, smashing Stiles's lips against his teeth. "Bite," Peter warns, "and I'm out." 

If Stiles didn't need him, he would. But he does need him. 

Seething, Stiles exhales harshly through his nose, and Peter seems to take that as acquiescence. He eases up, his palm hot against Stiles's smarting skin. "Now hear me out," he says. "If you let me... kiss—" Peter uses the word like an unsatisfied customer, and Stiles isn’t sure whether or not to be offended "—you, then everything will play out perfectly. But if you don't," Peter says with an unfriendly smile, "Well, I make no promises." 

At a loss, Stiles blinks at him, mouth falling open. Peter wants to _what?_  

Peter grins like this is some sort of private joke and takes his hand off Stiles's mouth, tucking it under Stiles's chin instead. He tilts Stiles's face up. "It's one little kiss, Stiles. Completely innocent." Peter sure doesn't sound innocent, his voice warm and liquid like molasses, and for some strange reason it's now that Stiles's body notices how close they are, chest to (ridiculously firm) chest, the hand curled around Stiles's wrist warm and calloused, and the other hand surprisingly gentle against the soft flesh beneath Stiles's chin. Peter won't hurt him. And if he says it's just one little kiss, it's just one little kiss, isn't it? Peter's done many things, but he's never lied so blatantly before. 

Stiles swallows, breath shuddering. "But, my dad-?" he starts to ask, voice weak. Distantly, he thinks he shouldn't be turned on, but fuck it, he's a teenager and a small breeze could turn him on, let alone a hot werewolf who makes everything sound ridiculously dirty.

"We have time," Peter assures, oddly confident for someone who was only just guessing why the Darach might be waiting around. Peter's face drifts closer, almost making Stiles go cross eyed. "A deal's a deal, Stiles." His lips brush Stiles's as he speaks, feather-soft. "What'll it be?" 

Time is running out, and it's just a little kiss. Stiles presses his lips to Peter's, 

He tips Stiles's chin up, fingers gentle on Stiles’s skin in a way that makes Stiles wish he’d be more violent. ”Then sit back, relax.” Peter smirks and leans closer, lips brushing Stiles's as he croons, "Think of queen and country if you must." 

_Fucking_ — no. Peter’s a creep and Stiles’s options are limited, but he’s not going to sit back and just take it. He surges forward and smashes his lips against Peter's, knocking their noses together. Snatching his wrists again, Peter huffs, breath hot and tickling in a way that makes Stiles shiver. He refuses Stiles’s violence, his lips slow in the face of Stiles’s agitation, his mouth coaxing and soft andStiles thinks he might able to learn from this. Who knows when he’ll come across another person willing to make out with him? And besides, this is a small price to pay if it’ll save his father. It’s definitely no hardship.

Stiles tries to tug his wrists out of Peter's grasp, but Peter holds them down and takes Stiles's lower lip between his teeth, giving it a little tug before soothing it with his lips. He nips and teases until Stiles practically bites out of frustration, earning himself an amused hum and an even slower, more torturous pace that makes Stiles’s torso shake, like Peter's trying to make him beg for it. The way Peter wrests control from Stiles, relentless and decisive, Stiles bets he probably is. 

Peter's tongue slides over the roof of his mouth, and Stiles lets out a startled moan. He turns away from it, panting, and knocks his head back against the Jeep, trying to get control of himself, not that his effort does much good, impeded by the heat building in the pit of his stomach. It makes Stiles choke back a moan.

Peter trails his lips down the line of Stiles’s jaw, then latches onto the vulnerable skin in the crook of Stiles’s neck. An acute point of heat and rushing endorphins, it feels even better than the kiss. Peter’s thumbs stroke Stiles’s the insides of Stiles’s wrists, and Stiles goes limp against the Jeep, slumping into Peter and letting him suck and lave at Stiles's stinging, oversensitive skin, and Stiles's breath catches. He’ll bruise, won’t he? "Oh, f—fuck." He feels Peter smirk against his skin, and he can't think of any words to say to that. 

Peter releases his wrists, and Stiles’s hands drop down to Peter's hips, holding him close, not quite sure whether he wants to push him away or pull him closer. "Christ." Peter may be creepy, but he certainly has his talents. 

Peter releases Stiles’s left wrist and tilts Stiles’s head further to the side for easier access. Stiles lets him, body hot and flushed like he’s been drugged, and Peter presses open-mouthed kisses down his throat, nipping here and there, until he gets to Stiles's collarbone. Finally, his higher thinking kicks in, and Stiles manages to breathe out, "No, but, Peter, my d—" 

He cuts himself off with a hiss as Peter bites down, not hard enough to draw blood, but definitely hard enough to bruise black for a week. Stiles shivers, breath catching. ”What the hell?" That shouldn’t turn him on.

Peter's hums and laps at the bite mark apologetically, and then his lips find Stiles's again, nipping and tugging, and Stiles digs his fingers into Peter's back, urging him closer until Peter's tongue sweeps across his lower lip. He yanks Peter's head down so he can get a better angle—

Peter pulls away with a grin. "That wasn't the favor, by the way." And he starts walking away. Just like that. Fucking asshole.

"Hey, woah, wait," protests Stiles, trotting to catch up. He drops to a walk, breathless and ridiculously, _stupidly_ turned on. "You can't just –I mean, you implied –what even?"

Peter side-eyes him. "Do you want to save your father or not?"

Stiles flails. "How the hell was that helping me save my dad? What the –just, was there even a point?” He windmills his arms up in the air, then drops them down to clutch at his hair.

Peter offers him a small, one-shoulder shrug. "I was bored."

Stiles nearly stops in his tracks, arms falling to his sides. "You were... bored." 

Peter nods. 

"Oh my god, what the hell is wrong with you!?" They are _so_ talking about this later. No way is Peter gonna get away with this. But for now, Stiles has higher priorities.

Peter glares at Stiles and jerks his head towards the warehouse no more than a couple hundred feet away. "Stop flailing like a drunk. You're up." 

The air whooshes out of him, and he swallows, suddenly solemn. 

This is it. 

 

 

o—o—o

 

Not even five minutes into the fight, and everything's falling apart. Scott and Isaac have been knocked unconscious; Allison and her father have been paralyzed, and the bones of both of Derek's legs were just shattered. Things are Not Good. 

Well, his dad's still alive, so there's that, at least. 

"Look," says Stiles, backing up as the scary-nasty-looking Darach version of Ms. Blake stalks towards him from the opposite side of the warehouse. "If you're really so desperate to kill some Alphas, wouldn't you rather we work together? I mean, we wanna stop them, too." 

"Hmm, it's a nice idea," the Darach says in Ms. Blake's voice, and wow, that's creepy as fuck. "But let me be honest with you, your little pack’s not doing a good job. You're a bunch of babies scrabbling just to survive," she says ruefully, as if she feels bad for saying it. "So I'm here to pick up your mess," she purrs, and Stiles finds himself hitting the wall of the warehouse. He edges along it, trying to keep as much distance between him and his evil English teacher as possible. 

"Okay, fine, we suck, I know," he admits, "But what if I told you I brought one of the Alphas here just for you?" 

"I'd say you're adorable for trying so hard, but really, Stiles, I'm not that stupid. I can sense him. He's just another beta." 

Well, shit, there goes plan B. Clearly Stiles overestimated Peter's intelligence by a mile. 

And there is no plan C. 

Stiles's eyes dart around the warehouse, looking for something, anything he can use, before they land on his father. He's slumped over in the chair, the knife still embedded in his chest. Every once and a while he lets out a weak groan or mumble.

Stiles stops moving and looks at the Darach/Ms. Blake –it's hard to think of them as the same person. "Ms. Blake," he pleads. "Please let my father go."

"Oh, sweetie," she says, still moving towards Stiles. She’s getting far too close. "I was never going to kill him."

Stiles’s stomach drops. “What?"

The Darach takes another step forward, now just ten feet away. "Stiles, you're the man of the hour, not your father.”

_What?_ Stiles’s brow furrows. "I'm sorry, I think I'm missing s—"

He's cut off by an arm snaking around his shoulders and yanking him to the side, his back now pressed against someone's muscled chest. The guy's other hand wraps around his throat, claws pricking his skin. “Oh my god!" Stiles yelps.

“Let the sheriff go," says Peter's voice oh so politely, his chest rumbling against Stiles's back, "Or you lose your sacrifice.”

"Peter, what the f—" Stiles starts to shout, but Peter's claws digging into the skin around his jugular shut him up. Stiles holds his breath. This was not in the plan!

"I don't believe you," says the Darach, taking a step forward.

Peter's claws break skin, and Stiles hisses in pain. The Darach pauses.

"The sheriff has always been good to the Hale family," Peter explains. "Let him go."

"And if I do that, what’ll stop you from letting his son go next?"

Stiles can feel hot blood dripping down his neck. He hates his life.

"I owe Deucalion a beating,” Peter says, and Stiles’s heart races. Peter with another vendetta is the last thing he needs. “And you're going to help. But the only way you'll be able to do so is if you sacrifice Stiles here, so I'm going to let you. Plus, let's be honest, we all know how annoying he is. He won't be a major loss."

"Hey!" Stiles protests, and then he winces because Peter's claws dig even deeper into his throat. He's totally gonna scar. If he survives, that is.

The Darach's creepy light blue eyes narrow, eyeing Peter in consideration. Then she shrugs and says, "Fine. He’s all yours.” She waves a hand, and the Sheriff comes flying out of the chair, straight towards Stiles and Peter.

Peter shoves Stiles towards her, and all Stiles sees is a rush of moving fabric and gray concrete as he tumbles forward. "Watch the knife," the Darach tells Peter pleasantly, and Stiles is being caught around the arms. He struggles, only to be forcefully turned around to see Peter slinging his father's arm over his neck.

"Have fun," Peter says with a smirk and a little wave, and before Stiles even realizes it, he's being tugged away towards the chair.

"No, wait, what are you doing?" Stiles panics. He tries to pull away, but Ms. Blake must work out a lot, because he’s pretty sure she's stronger than Derek. "If you're gonna sacrifice me, I at least deserve to know why." He considers yelling insults at Peter, but the werewolf's got his father; Stiles appreciates that.

She maneuvers him into the chair and starts taping one of his wrists to it. He kicks her, but she doesn't even seem to notice. "This might take a while, so I might as well," she murmurs. "Have you ever heard of a five-fold knot, Stiles?"

They literally just talked about this, but if he can stall at least a little bit, sure, why not? ”No, please enlighten me," Stiles says, perhaps too sarcastically.

The Darach glares at him, and wow, that's terrifying. He tries to move his free hand only for the Darach to shove it back down the moment it twitches. Stiles thinks he can hear the bones of his wrist creak. "I suppose we can skip the history lesson,” she says. “You know who I've been after, don't you, Stiles? Virgins, warriors, healers, and philosophers. So who's next?"

She stares at Stiles, obviously waiting, so he answers obligingly. "Guardians?"

She hums. "One guardian, Stiles, just one. It's okay, though. You still get an A for effort."

_Why why why do the bad guys have to be so melodramatic?_ Stiles is embarrassed for them."Look, Ms. Blake, I'm flattered, really, but I'm not a guardian. Do you see how skinny I am? How the hell am I supposed to protect someone?"

"Tch, we both know that's really not what counts, don't we? Besides, the type of guardian I'm looking for is special. One of kind. Like you." It's official. All the Bad Guys love Stiles.

When Stiles starts to splutter in protest, she holds an index finger to his mouth, and _ew, oh god,_ that's disgusting. "I've read your papers. You’re a philosopher. You take care of your father. You’re a healer. You play lacrosse. You’re a warrior—"

Stiles snorts, so she says, "I only said you're a warrior. I didn't say a good one."

Stiles squints at her in affront.

She continues in just a whisper, "And, you're a virgin.”

_Aw man, really? Goddamnit._

"Actually..." Peter’s drawling voice comes from behind her, and she whirls around in surprise. 

Stiles is pretty surprised, too. He doesn't remember seeing Peter sneak up. Then again, Peter's a Hale. Their lurking skills are unparalleled. 

"You might wanna try that last one again. Does he look like a virgin to you?" 

Peter walks up to the Darach's side as she peers down at Stiles. Brow furrowed, Stiles tilts his head up to see Peter leering down at him, smirk plastered across his face, hair messy from Stiles’s fingers, and Stiles thinks about what he himself must look like. His hair’s probably all screwed up from Peter's fingers running through it, and his lips still feel a little swollen. He's got a hickey on his jaw and a throbbing bite mark on his collarbone. Not to mention, he's still pretty sweaty from all the fighting and running around. 

He probably looks well and truly fucked. 

Oh. _Ohhhhhhh._ Nice.

"You didn't," the Darach says, still sounding just like Jennifer Blake, and her voice is perfect. 

"Oh, I did," Peter says proudly, his smirk turning into a shit-eating grin, and Stiles kind of wants to laugh.

The Darach looks down at Stiles. He smiles weakly. "Eheh." 

She looks back at Peter, and that's when Stiles realizes her grip has loosened on his free wrist. 

So he yanks out his knife and stabs her through the heart. He’s glad he didn’t use it to stab Peter earlier. This is much more satisfying. 

The knife gets stuck halfway through, so Stiles surges forward, fighting against tendons and muscle till the blade he buries it in her up to the hilt. He twists with both hands, and the blade grates against bone. Voice lowered and steady, he says, "Don't fuck with my family." He shoves.

She stumbles back, clutching at her chest, and then she's pulling the knife out with a squelch, glaring at Stiles, and Stiles pulls back, terrified. Because he's still trapped in the chair, and there's a crazy evil-druid-lady-thing coming at him with a knife. 

But then she staggers and falls to the ground, and Peter tells her helpfully, "Don't worry, it's only ketamine. Argents, you know. We can negotiate taking down the Alpha pack together once you wake up." 

And then she's out, morphing into hot!teacher Jennifer Blake once again. 

"Get me out of this chair," Stiles demands, skipping right past shock and going straight for getting-shit-done. 

Peter sighs and grabs the bloody knife off the floor. He cuts through the duct tape on Stiles’s wrists, and Stiles mutters a thanks before running towards his dad, who's lying against the wall, eyes closed. "Dad, Dad!" He taps his father's cheek. When his dad only groans weakly, Stiles gives him a good, hard slap across the face. 

"Jesus, Stiles, I know you're mad I didn't believe you, but I thought I taught you not to hit," his dad slurs, and Stiles would collapse against him, _except there's still a fucking knife stuck in his chest._

"Stay awake, okay, Dad? Just stay awake." He pulls out his phone and fumbles for the buttons. His hands are shaking, though, and his vision's blurring. When did that happen? “Goddamnit," he chokes in frustration, backspacing and trying to dial 911 repeatedly. "I'm sorry, Dad, I just –God—" 

A hand reaches into his line of sight and tugs the phone away. "Deal with your father," says Peter, unusually solemn. "I'll take care of the ambulance." 

"Th—thanks," Stiles stutters, and he thinks he might be going into shock now that this is almost over. 

"Don't thank me yet," warns Peter. "You still owe me." 

"I know," says Stiles, and then he takes his father's hand in his, clutching it like a lifeline. "I know," he whispers. It’s okay.

"Stiles?" his dad groans, and Stiles squeezes his hand even more tightly.

"Yeah?" 

"No more secrets." 

Stiles chuckles weakly. "No more secrets." 

His dad squeezes his hand back, eyes open, and Stiles sighs in relief. They'll be be okay. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Dubcon specifics: ((Spoilers)) Peter decides to make it appear that he's "devirginized" Stiles so that Jennifer will think he's no longer a suitable sacrifice. The way Peter does this is by making out with Stiles. I suppose it's my watered-down version of Fuck-Or-Die, and it's Peter's idea of saving time. (Seeing as how the Sheriff wound up with a dagger embedded in his chest at the end of the episode, I assumed that the characters would be under more of a time crunch. Silly me.)
> 
> The idea of Stiles being the final sacrifice because he's a special Guardian figure comes from this [post](http://perceptions3key.tumblr.com/post/56852830721/morgan-leigh-faelan01-you-guys-stiles-is).
> 
> There are a lot of different takes on Peter's characterization and motivation. I based mine off of my own, personal meta, which you can find [here](http://perceptions3key.tumblr.com/post/56520230222/what-the-hale-is-going-on-in-peters-head-an).
> 
> Kudos and comments feed my soul.


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